


Gold Leaf, Hanging Vines

by akaparalian



Series: Opimae [2]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Body Worship, Demigod Magnus Bane, M/M, Praise Kink, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 02:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15475356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaparalian/pseuds/akaparalian
Summary: It happens like this, every time: Alexander will be going about his daily business, returning home from training with his cohort or accompanying his sister down to the forum, and he will find a little slip of parchment, tucked impossibly away in the perfect place for him to find it.This time it comes to him in the heat of the afternoon, as he returns from running an errand for his father. He finds the note tucked into the crook of a tree branch, just barely catching his eye as he walks past.The Temple of Liber,it says, in Magnus’ thin, spiky script.Don’t be late.





	Gold Leaf, Hanging Vines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thattrainssailed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thattrainssailed/gifts), [alittlebriton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlebriton/gifts).



> The further adventures of Magnus and Alec fucking their way through Ancient Rome! thattrainssailed and alittlebriton both requested more of this 'verse, and while I hadn't originally been intending to continue it, when I asked what kinds of things they might like to see, they both delivered and my brain ran with it, so... here we are! 
> 
> Full disclosure, all of my research here comes from Wikipedia, so if there are inaccuracies, I do apologize. (Well, okay -- I _did_ traumatize my poor brother a bit by picking his brain for parts of this as well, but that's what he gets for majoring in history and being related to me.) Since I don't really explain it much in context, the [_cohortes urbanae_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cohortes_urbanae) were basically cops. That's the short version, anyway.
> 
> Please enjoy! You can find me on Twitter [@akaparalian](http://twitter.com/akaparalian) and on Tumblr [@floralegia.](http://floralegia.tumblr.com) There's a graphic/post for this fic on Tumblr [here,](https://floralegia.tumblr.com/post/176400628549/it-happens-like-this-every-time-alexander-will) as well.

It happens like this, every time: Alexander will be going about his daily business, returning home from training with his cohort or accompanying his sister down to the forum, and he will find a little slip of parchment, tucked impossibly away in the perfect place for him to find it.

The message will be simple, just a location, usually. And it will be signed with a sigil that he has tried and failed to investigate in several libraries both private and public — a knot of sharp lines that create the illusion of curvature. There will be nothing else, no name and no time and sure indication that it is even meant for him, but Alexander doesn’t need those things. He already knows.

And every time, he finds the note, he makes his excuses, and he goes, as soon as he possibly can.

It is not so different, he thinks, from the clandestine meetings he used to arrange with other boys his own age, except that it is different in every conceivable way, and his heart sings just to think of it.

This time it comes to him in the heat of the afternoon, as he returns from running an errand for his father. He finds the note tucked into the crook of a tree branch, just barely catching his eye as he walks past.

 _The Temple of Liber_ , it says, in Magnus’ thin, spiky script. _Don’t be late._

‘Don’t be late’ isn’t a normal part of the exchange, so Alexander heeds the warning. He hurries, the leather soles of his sandals slapping against the path, the soggy hot air pressing in all around him and clogging in his lungs. It is the height of summer; his tunic is stuck to his skin with sweat by the time he is halfway to his destination, but Magnus, he knows, will not mind. In fact, he seems fascinated at times by these little reminders of Alexander’s humanity — that he sweats, bruises, bleeds even.

Alexander has tried — very hard and at great length — to bruise Magnus with his teeth and lips, and never succeeded. He sweats, but Alexander almost wonders if it isn’t a trick somehow, an illusion.

The temple is unusually empty when he gets there — or, well, he assumes it must be unusual, but he doesn’t really know. He’s been to temples, of course, many times, with his family seeking honor or with his cohort seeking success in battle, but he’s never been to… _this_ temple. Liber, god of wine, god of fertility, god of freedom, a patron of the plebeians — his is not a space Alexander has ever entered, not a blessing he has ever sought.

Fitting, though, he supposes, to come here now, considering how he and Magnus had met those months ago. Alexander hurries up the steps into the temple, footsteps echoing against the marble all around.

The space is magnificent, resplendent, decadent, adorned in gold and rich fabrics and fresh greenery. Grape vines wind around some of the columns, and rich burgundy cloth drapes between them, and as Alexander lets the procession of the columns draw his eyes forward through the large, open room, he feels his breath catch.

At the head of the room is a grand piece of statuary, marble with gold encrusting it in just the right places to draw the eye. It is a depiction of Liber himself, with a head of curling golden hair under a crown of fresh ivy, one arm draped around a spear, the other presenting a _fascinus_ — a phallus, emblematic of virility and of protection. At Liber’s feet is an altar, and leaning casually against the altar like a god in repose is Magnus.

His eyes, golden and piercing, are fixed fully on Alexander. He wears a fine-looking toga, entirely in purple, the color so rich and striking against the warm, glowing bronze of his skin that for a moment the significance of seeing Magnus in the _trabea_ doesn’t sink in. Alexander bites into his lower lip when it does; Magnus is dressed as an emperor or a god, right here in the temple. Had he worn it out in public? Had he been seen in the streets like this? 

On anyone else — _anyone_ else— Alexander would think it blasphemy. But Magnus…

“You made good time,” Magnus calls to him across the room, his voice a warm purr. Alexander jolts, only just now aware that he had stopped, frozen, midway to the altar, and hurries to his side.

“Far be it from me to disappoint you by my tardiness,” he replies as he draws nearer, the words echoing against the cool stone under his feet. The heat of midsummer has no place here; the inside of the temple carries with it the milder spring atmosphere of the Liberalia.

“Mmm,” Magnus hums, smiling at him in a way that sends a smooth, curling warmth through Alexander’s gut. He reaches out with one hand, the jewels and bright metals of his many rings catching in the light, and Alexander goes to him without question, ascending the stairs that lead to the altar two at a time.

Magnus pulls him in immediately for a kiss; it starts out almost chaste, just a greeting, but neither of them can resist the urge to deepen it for long. Alexander’s lips part around a sigh, which turns into a groan at the familiar silken brush of Magnus’ tongue, pressing slickly into his mouth and claiming every part of him.

They pull apart eventually, though the kiss continues to hang in the air between them like sweet, heady smoke.

“So,” Magnus says after a moment, one of his hands carding lightly through the hair at the back of Alexander’s neck while the other comes to rest against his sternum. “Are you still doing the lion’s share of your father’s work and getting none of the glory?”

Alexander huffs. This is one of Magnus’ favorite topics of conversation, outside of… carnal acts.

“I have a duty —” he begins, but Magnus cuts him off quickly, with a roll of his golden eyes.

“— to your family, yes, I know,” he says. “But there is duty, Alexander, and then there is thankless servitude. You have a duty to your cohort, too, but at least _they_ appreciate you. You are a far better son than your father deserves.”

Perhaps Alexander should feel offended by that, upset on his father’s behalf. But the way Magnus says it — and he has said exactly this, or else something very similar, many times — has always sounded to Alexander as though he is basing the statement in personal experience, and that leaves Alexander with just the feeling of warm empathy and gratitude, not offense or irritation.

“Regardless,” he says, but his tone is rather softer than he might want to pretend, “I _am_ still his son, and that means that I must do my best to honor him.”

“You honor him far beyond his due,” Magnus insists, his own voice so warm that it makes Alexander flush. “As you honor me beyond mine.”

“Impossible,” Alexander immediately retorts, leaning closer, just so, to press their foreheads together. “I could bring you all the glory of Rome and it would never be close to enough.”

“You say the sweetest things,” Magnus teases, but so softly that it feels truthful all the same. Even more genuine is the way he reels Alexander in and kisses him again, pure warmth suffusing through both of them at the contact.

Alexander barely thinks anything of it when Magnus reaches for his waist, or when his hands slide lower to settle around his hips; he is too caught up in the press and slide of their lips together, in teeth catching and tugging lightly in his lower lip. It is only when Magnus uses his grip on Alexander to spin them around, the motion so quick that it makes Alexander’s head spin, that he gasps his surprise into Magnus’ mouth. 

The edge of the altar presses into the small of his back, the thick rich fabric that covers it doing nothing to soften the insistent feeling of the marble against his spine. Magnus lifts him up, just a little, and pushes gently until Alexander is sat upon the altar, and all of a sudden the reasoning behind summoning him _here_ specifically becomes abundantly clear.

Usually the fabric would not be left on the altar during the act of a sacrifice, but Alexander supposes Magnus has made this deference to his comfort.

The kissing doesn’t stop; Alexander’s legs fall open automatically and Magnus immediately steps between them, leaning down very briefly to suck a little bruise onto Alexander’s jaw when he knots his ankles automatically behind Magnus’ back.

“You are a holy thing,” Magnus murmurs to him as he kisses his way back over to Alexander’s mouth, his fingers tightening around Alexander’s hips, and Alexander cannot help but groan.

 _Not so holy as you_ , he thinks, but does not say. He has his doubts — _strong_ doubts — about the purity of Magnus’ human blood, but it is nothing they have ever spoken of. He half-remembers thinking, when he first laid eyes on Magnus at that bacchanalian, that he was so beautiful, so otherworldly and gorgeous, that he must have been born of Venus. He knows better now; though Magnus _is_ glorious, a vision of golds and rich browns and dark, inky blacks, he is more than just beautiful, more than just lovely. Even as he is pressing Alexander down onto the altar and kissing him and painting bruises into his hipbones with the tight grasp of his fingers, he is more than just sensual; he is _powerful_ , with just the edge of darkness flickering in that power, in a way that tells Alexander that whoever he really, truly is, there are depths to him that Alexander has not yet seen.

But he has made his peace with that, or anyway he tells himself he has. He waits for Magnus’ messages, trusts that they will find him, and when Magnus tells him to come, he comes. He tells himself he is being patient, that Magnus will tell him, in time. He tells himself that Magnus cares for him, and this, he knows, is true; he can feel it in the weight of him now, pressing Alexander down into the altar, and he can feel it in the soft caress of his fingers as they work at the fabric of his tunic to smooth it out of the way. Alexander lifts up, quickly, to allow the garment to be pulled off over his head, and when he leans back down and spreads himself across the altar he can hear the hitch in Magnus’ breathing. The sound makes him feel almost giddy with power.

“A holy thing,” Magnus repeats in a dim echo, leaning back and away to survey him. Alexander wishes, for a moment, to see through his eyes; what must he look like, sprawled out on the rich red silk that covers the altar, left in just his linen undergarment? He doesn’t think of himself as a vain person, but he has to admit to the thrill that goes through him at the idea that he looks beautiful, desirable. _Fuckable_ , his mind supplies, and though the thought is almost at odds with the reverent tone of Magnus’ voice, Alexander shivers.

“Please,” he murmurs. He’s never exactly sure what he’s asking for, but Magnus, impossibly, always seems to know.

He steps back more fully, so that they’re no longer touching at all, and Alexander wants to whine — that is most certainly _not_ what he was asking for — but before he gets the chance, Magnus is undressing, pulling his toga off and leaving just the thin tunic underneath. And then he returns, and this time when he presses up against Alexander there is so little between them, and a low moan blooms up and out of Alexander’s throat before he can even think to stop it.

“ _Please_ ,” he says again, louder and more insistently. Magnus hums and shushes him, caressing the side of his face and leaning down to press one, two, three soft, brushing kisses to Alexander’s slack mouth.

“Have patience,” Magnus tells him, and there is a note of amusement in his voice, but it’s overshadowed and almost entirely obscured by the low rumble of something pleased, almost possessive. “I brought you here for a reason, Alexander, did you know that?”

“What reason?” He can barely breathe the words out, becuase he is too focused on the way that Magnus’ lips have moved down to his neck, the way his breath fans out over the column of Alexander’s throat, the soft brush of his mouth and tongue and the occaisional nip of teeth as he slowly makes his way down.

“To worship you,” Magnus says simply, the words vibrating in the hollow where Alexander’s neck meets his shoulders. “Obviously.”

 _Something holy. Worship you. Something holy_. It’s wrong, all wrong — backwards, and can’t Magnus see that? This is a reversal; if anyone is deserving of worship, it isn’t him, it’s _Magnus_. But his words settle in Alexander’s stomach and burn there, sending prickling shocks of warmth down into the lowest part of his gut and up to flash across his cheeks, and he turns his head to the side, exposing his neck to Magnus more fully, because he cannot possibly think of what else to do.

“You are _divine_ , my Alexander,” Magnus breathes, and bites down gently on the column of his throat — a promise, just the lightest kiss of teeth. He soothes over it with his tongue a moment later, though it’s hardly even a bite and Alexander feels no pain. 

“Magnus, Magnus,” he gasps, already nearly wordless — hardly anything has happened and he is already all but distraught, laid bare and open to the sensations of Magnus over him and all around him, aching for more with every fibre of his being — and desperately catches his fingers in the light linen of Magnus’ tunic, pulling at it insistently. It takes so _little_ , so close to nothing to have him fully wrapped up in the moment, focused on nothing in the world beyond the two of them.

Magnus presses a kiss to his collarbone, and everything else — his duties, his worries, the frustrations of his life — falls away. Magnus works nimble fingers under the last scrap of cloth that covers Alexander’s body and tosses it away thoughtlessly, removes his own tunic until they are pressed together skin-to-skin, and Alexander thinks wildly that if he could remain right here, just like this, for all of time, and have nothing else ever again, he would be the luckiest man in all the world.

—

Magnus has lived a long time — a _very_ long time — and in all his years, no matter his heritage, he has never felt as heavenly, as blessed, as he does in this moment.

Alexander lays before him like something from a dream (and in a sense, he is; Magnus has dreamed about this before, this very moment, which is how he knew it would happen — knew it _had_ to happen), all moon-pale skin and wild dark hair against the red runner draped over the altar. Magnus could call him divine a hundred times, a thousand, and it wouldn’t be enough to encompass the full marvel of him, the way looking at him like this is so achingly glorious that Magnus almost can’t bear it.

But he set this course for himself, he must remember, and so he shall bear the consequences. Though as the consequences largely involve the spread of Alexander under his hands and the desperate noises he makes when Magnus breathes against his skin, he thinks that he ought to manage them perfectly well.

It is almost, _almost_ a desecration, he muses, looking down to where finger-shaped bruises are already blooming around Alexander’s hips from his too-tight grasp. The image of Alexander spread out on the altar, in every sense a sacrifice, comes awfully close in his mind to impiety; Magnus is well aware that he is playing a dangerous game today, that he likely dances on a knife’s edge to be doing this at the very feet of Liber. Still. If he had to pick a temple in which to do this, he knows this one wasn’t exactly an unsafe choice. He will worship Alexander, and by doing so he will worship generally, giving his adoration and gratitude physical form in his actions.

Magnus has thought this through, or so he tells himself as he begins to press purposeful kisses all the way down Alexander’s front.

He makes his way very slowly; there is so much, _so_ much, to appreciate, and he fully intends to take his time with all of it. He traces across Alexander’s collarbones, nipping lightly and sucking dark bruises into the shadows underneath. Alexander cries out when Magnus’ teeth scrape delicately across his sternum, the sound ringing deliciously off of the stone and marble all around them, the whole room echoing with it. And when Magnus’ mouth closes fully around a nipple, sucking lightly as he flicks his eyes up to take in Alexander’s reaction, he’s rewarded with a high, keening groan that tapers off into a garbled rendition of Magnus’ name.

So _sensitive_ , he marvels. Just like the first time — or better, even, without the slight haze of wine and revelry and smoke that had been suffused constantly throughout their first meeting. Even the slightest brush of hands or lips has Alexander bowing up into the touch, and Magnus doesn’t even need to look to see how aroused he is. He can all but smell the salt tang of it in the air regardless.

As he continues his path down Alexander’s body, though, and feels the muscles of his stomach jerk delightfully under his lips, stopping to leave sweet red bites over his ribs before continuing on, he very carefully avoids getting too _close_ to Alexander’s arousal. His cock is starting to leak little drops of precome onto his stomach, and though part of Magnus — rather a large part, in fact — longs to taste it, he has something else in mind.

He blithely skips straight from Alexander’s abdomen down to his thighs. Alexander jerks, crying out at the touch of lips to the tender flesh of his inner thigh — perhaps he is ticklish, though if he is Magnus has never noticed it before. He seems to have realized now, to some degree at least, exactly what part of him Magnus is working towards, because when Magnus kneels down and hitches Alexander’s legs over his shoulders, putting himself face-level with the altar, Alexander cries out, “Yes, _yes_ , Magnus — I need —”

Magnus knows what he needs.

The first almost-chaste kiss that he presses to Alexander’s entrance has him jerking his hips so hard into the contact that Magnus actually has to pull back, soothing him with gentle touches and murmuring, “Patience, my Alexander, just wait, you’re doing so wonderfully, my love,” which only seems to wind Alexander up further. Nevertheless, the words feel _right_ dripping off his tongue, and he can’t stop himself: “You are unspeakable, incredible, divine. Let me take care of you, you are doing so _well_ , just let me…”

And, unable to stop himself, he leans forward again, and this time the way he mouths against Alexander’s rim comes with considerably more intent. Magnus makes no secret of the fact that he is just as deeply affected by Alexander as Alexander is by him; he is more practiced, surely, and is therefore able to maintain at least the appearance of control to a greater degree and for longer periods of time, but on the inside he is already melting just as surely as Alexander is already shaking apart beneath him. 

He glances up — _way_ up — into the impassive stone face of Liber, and sends up a swift prayer of gratitude and another for virility, while he’s at it, and then he attends himself fully to his work.

The clench of Alexander around his tongue, hot and tight, is a very, very sweet promise of things to come, but it’s also a lovely victory all its own; Magnus works his way in slowly, with broad, flat stripes and then more insistent presses. Every once in a while he pulls back to kiss and suck at the skin all around, or even to bite at the delicious swell of Alexander’s buttocks, before inevitably giving in to his own impatience and leaning back in again to fuck into him with his tongue.

Alexander is moaning and whining all but continuously now, and his breathing is increasingly shallow and unsteady, and yet somehow it still comes as a surprise to Magnus when he suddenly shouts and his hole starts to flutter rhythmically against Magnus’ mouth. He leans back in shock, blinking, and sure enough, Alexander’s cock is pulsing wetly over his stomach as he comes.

“Oh, my darling,” Magnus says, awed.

Alexander lets out a shaky breath. “Magnus,” he manages, with a rather remarkable amount of clarity for someone who’s still shuddering through the aftershocks of an orgasm, if you ask Magnus. “Please, I don’t think I’ve ever needed you more.”

“You really _do_ say the sweetest things.”

“Is it so sweet,” Alexander counters immediately, propping himself up just a little on his elbows, and even as he watches Magnus feels a thrill in the pit of his stomach, “if I say that I need you to _fuck_ me?” 

And here he is: an honored member of the _cohortes urbanae,_ a centurion, firstborn son of one of the most powerful patrician families in Rome, a born leader, strong and intelligent and capable and all of the other glorious things that Magnus has come to know of him in these months that Magnus has known him in shadows and hidden places, and Alexander is spread out before him, legs pushing wider and wider apart as he begs for Magnus to fuck him.

For a man in such a position of power to ask so brazenly for something that would have him cast out of his house in shame if his father were ever to know… Alexander is incredibly certain of himself, which is its own unique kind of strength. 

Magnus finds it very possible that he may have never been more attracted to anyone than he is attracted to Alexander in this moment.

“ _Very_ sweet, darling,” he says, entirely breathless. Alexander smiles at him wickedly when he stumbles a little getting to his feet.

Having come once already, Alexander is noticeably more sensitive, impossible though that may seem — he jerks at the first press of Magnus’ cock, discreetly slicked with oil that has come from nowhere, not that Alexander is in any state to notice or question it, against his loosened and spit-wetted rim. But something about him is clearer-headed, too, and more demanding, some of the edge taken off, perhaps. He is never precisely shy, but now he is incredibly bold as he cants his hips forward and locks his ankles at the small of Magnus’ back, dragging him in with a sharp cry.

The tableau is magnificent: Alexander on his back on the altar, his eyes hazy and half-lidded as he works himself onto Magnus’ cock, his own come still cooling on his stomach from mere minutes ago. Magnus murmurs a nonsensical stream of praise and finally gives in to Alexander’s words, as well as the wordless pleading of his body, and pushes himself in steadily until he is fully sheathed and can lean over to press kisses at Alexander’s temples.

They move together in a way that has become almost second nature; everything about it is instinctively _right_ , easy somehow, in a way that says to anyone who knows as much about omens as Magnus does that he must be very careful not to let this slip away, not that he didn’t already know that. He grabs at one of Alexander’s knees and pushes it toward his chest, thanking all the gods that all of his physical training keeps Alexander quite flexible. The change in angle that the movement creates is delicious, and they both cry out. Alexander is beginning to harden again between them; he’s young enough still that this presents no problem, and Magnus notes it and then keeps moving, fucking into him in smooth, deep thrusts.

“You are _exquisite,_ ” he breathes, and Alexander shakes his head slightly, moaning, so he insists, “You _are_. And the way you feel…”

He doesn’t have the words for it. He doubts they exist. And yet Alexander seems to understand him anyway.

“Magnus,” he groans, “ _harder,_ ” and Magnus doubts very much that he could refuse this man anything at this point, but he certainly can’t refuse him that.

Magnus waits until Alexander’s vocalizations reach a fever pitch, until the motion of his hips as he grinds down to meet Magnus’ thrusts looses all sense of rhythm, before he reaches down to take his leaking cock in hand, swiping his fingers quickly through the mess of Alexander’s first orgasm where it remains on his stomach to make the touch slicker and easier.

It doesn’t take very long at all until Alexander is once again twitching around him, throwing his head back with a long, drawn-out cry as he climaxes. Magnus watches almost feverishly, eyes tracking over the flutter of his eyelashes, the way his cock pulses and jerks, the tension and pull in his shoulders as his whole body arches.

He hardly even realizes that he’s dangling over the edge, too, until Alexander’s eyes flutter open again and he breathes, “Magnus, come on,” his lips pink and swollen where he’s been biting at them in his pleasure. 

Magnus is, after all, only half a god. He cannot possibly resist that.

He floats very slowly back to his senses, back to the confines of his own body; when he pulls himself free of Alexander, biting back a punched-out noise, he watches the way his spend starts to slip out of him and down onto the altar and feels his cock give a valiant, if futile, twitch of interest.

“You,” he informs Alexander as he helps him to a sitting position, “are truly magnificent.”

Alexander snorts quietly. “You say that every time. If you aren’t careful, you may find that eventually it wears thin.”

“Well, then tell me when the muses invent better words to describe you, and I will use them,” Magnus retorts, unable to stop the way the words sound incredibly, impossibly soft.

Alexander laughs, then hesitates. When he reaches out to brush a hand across Magnus’ cheek, it feels like something shivers in the space between them, in the distance that had been barely there just minutes ago but is sinking back into place now that this little dalliance is over and they both must return to the rest of their lives.

“Summon me again soon,” Alexander says very quietly, so quietly that Magnus almost wonders if the words are even meant to be heard. But he _does_ hear them, and so he nods, because the thought of parting now is hard enough; staying away from Alexander for very long at all is quickly becoming impossible.

“As soon as I possibly can,” he swears.

He is rewarded by a little smile from Alexander, a tiny intimate curve of his lips that settles warmly in Magnus’ chest. He almost does something very foolish, like say _stay with me — I will keep you and provide for you, and we need never be parted again._ He doesn’t know exactly how those words would be received, but he doubts that it would be the outcome he wishes for. No matter what he might want — what _either_ of them might want — they must, for now, return to their separate worlds.

But not quite yet.

“Let me accompany you down to the road,” Magnus murmurs, and is unsurprised yet elated when Alexander nods. They dress in silence, the temple suddenly feeling vastly more empty and echoing than it had when they were busy being distracted by one another. The walk between the interior columns and out to the entrance, and then down the marble steps to the road, feels endless and instantaneous all at once, and neither of them speaks a single word the whole time.

They pause at the road. Alexander, Magnus knows, will be on his way to return to his family’s estate, following the curve of the road north; he himself has business to attend to at the home of a friend to the south. He allows himself one last, lingering moment before parting, simply standing still and drinking Alexander in, taking the measure of him and feeling an all-too-familiar pang in his chest at the thought of turning to walk away.

Alexander clearly is in a similar state of mind. 

“I _will_ see you soon?” he asks, as nervous as Magnus has ever heard him. 

“I swear it,” Magnus reassures him instantly, and after a moment’s hesitation he reaches over to place a hand on Alexander’s arm, squeezing lightly. “I’ll swear it on whatever you like.”

Alexander laughs softly, some of the nervousness gone, though tension is still clear on his face. “No, there’s no need. I believe you.” He hesitates. “I just wish…”

“I know,” Magnus says, barely more than a whisper. “And I feel just the same.”

But then he clears his throat, forcing himself to take a step back. If he doesn’t leave soon — if they don’t start to put some space between them soon — then he knows himself well enough to be certain that he will simply fall right back into Alexander all over again, and as pleasant as that would be, they both _do_ have other duties to attend to.

So he says, “Until we meet again, my Alexander,” and forces himself to turn and walk away.

And yet he doesn’t mistake the heavy weight of Alexander’s gaze on his shoulder until he finally passes around a bend in the road and out of sight.


End file.
